Page 5 of Sticks and Stones (Shadow Valley U)

Being a defense lawyer has its perks, I guess.

The secretary pokes her head in. “He’s on his way.”

I stare at the principal once the door has closed again, leaving just the four of us in her office. While I usually feel comfortable here—having never been in any amount of serious trouble—now, a bead of sweat rolls down my back.

“So, what’s this about?” I glance at the two officers framing me in.

The principal sits and folds her hands in front of her on the desk. “We performed a drug search of the property, and we found an illegal substance on your car.”

On, not in.

I press my lips together. Now is not the time to talk and get myself in even more trouble. I want to ask what they found and where. I want to ask who thefuckwould think to plant drugs on my car.

But I don’t because, if anything, my father trained me well.

To sit down, shut up, and wait for him.

I just never thought I’d need to take his advice.

Fifteen agonizing minutes later, the door opens, and my father storms through. He was clearly at work. His gray suit is perfectly in place, his tie knotted expertly. We used to share the same light-brown hair, although he started dying his a little darker to hide the gray at his temples.

His sharp gaze takes me in, then the rest of the room. “Principal Howie. Your secretary was not very forthcoming over the phone.”

“We found methamphetamines on your son’s truck,” one of the officers says. “Enough to be considered a felony.”

My father faces him. “Excuse me?”

The principal clears her throat. “Um, officers, have you met Daniel Foster?”

One of the officers pales, and it would be fucking amusing if my heart hadn’t stopped at the mention of meth.

That’s serious.

“I’m sorry, sir, but we have to take your son down to the station.”

Fuck.

Dad’s jaw tics. But it seems like he can’t stop them—or maybe he won’t—because he steps back and allows them to haul me up. I shake my head at him, trying to convey that it’s not mine. That he’s got to figure out a way to get meout. I mean, he’s defended worse criminals than me—and more famous ones, to be sure. They emerged with their reputations intact.

No one speaks to me. One of the officers tries in the cruiser, but the other stops him.

Meth. On my truck, not in it.

The truck my stepmother bought me with my father’s money as some sort of bribe, or penance—I never figured out which. I just started driving it.

Who the fuck would plant drugs onmytruck?

It doesn’t click until my father escorts me out of the police station six hours later. My body aches from sitting on a metal chair, and my throat is dry. Who would’ve known they were doing a search? Who would’ve left school just before lunchtime?

Only one person comes to mind.

One person who has connections to that world of drug dealers—who has beenlivingwith one.

Wren Davis.

“Reckless.”

My spine snaps straight.